Come Out To Play
by snappie
Summary: One killer. Two detectives. Fifteen victims. Can you beat the killer at her own game?


**Chapter One: The Waiting Game**

                She waited outside the house in her car and, although she was able feel the cold indefinitely as the engine was turned off, she felt strangely elated.  From within the house, the lights blazed merrily and she saw shadows flitting by the blinds, grey spectres in the light.  The clock by the dashboard told her it was seven in the evening.  She had a while to wait.  A light snapped on in an upstairs bedroom and her head snapped around.  A tall, but slightly plump blonde woman hustled into the room and from her vantage point, she saw her seemingly placate a child whom had just awoken from a ghastly nightmare.  She watched as the woman agitatedly flicked one of her blonde pigtails from her face and smiled at her child.  The woman walked to the window and gazed out of it for a few minutes.  She drew the curtains firmly and the light was turned out once more.  A Muggle neighbourhood.  Nice, unassuming, quiet.  The cars lined the street, like a sleeping army, every one in order and ready to snap to attention.  She fingered the knife on the passenger seat to her left.  She had sharpened it for the occasion.  If she had opened the window, she would have heard nothing but the faint sound of a car driving by a few streets away.  "Nineteen, Roseby Gardens" read the address on the sign.  Yes, this was the place.  She rubbed her palms together and blew on them.  The rain pelted down outside, the weather reflecting what was ahead.  A pathetic fallacy.  The rain obscured her vision and it bounced off the roof of the car and collected in puddles on the slippery tarmac.  The door opened and light spilled from the house.  The woman ventured from the house, holding an umbrella above her head and deposited a bulging sack of rubbish into the large council-issue bin at the end of the path.

                She had never stopped to question her motives.  She didn't need to.  They were already there, set in stone and she knew they wouldn't change.  She would not stop until her plans were fulfilled.  She had never stopped to question her state of mind, either.  Why was she doing this in the first place?  What was in it for her, after all?  Satisfaction.  In one word, satisfaction.  Satisfaction in knowing that she would hurt someone in ways they could never imagine.  Satisfaction in watching that someone's face contort with anguish as they attended the funeral of their late lover.  Just satisfaction in knowing it would be her turn soon, her turn to claim what was hers.  She knew it was worth it.  The door opened and a figure stepped out.  A hulking, male form holding an umbrella high above his head shut the door behind him and walked towards one of the cars parked on the street.  He clambered in, getting slightly wet in the process and sped away.  It was Seamus Finnegan.  The model business man.  The tale of the bored housewife, the secret lover and the jealous husband must end soon.  She was the one to do it.  It was perfect: she would enter and kill the wife, leaving through the back just as the husband entered the house from the front.  Leaving him as the prime suspect.  A piece of cake.

                She slowly opened the door of the car and, eyes darting furtively, dashed across the road, her cloak billowing behind her, knife in gloved hand.  She knocked at the door.  After a while, it opened, accompanied by the words "Darling, I didn't expect you home until eight..."  There she stood, face pale, nervously fidgeting.  The figure standing in front of her wasn't the person she was expecting, and in some lights she seemed relieved, as she had obviously not ridden the house of the evidence of her sordid affair.  

"Who are you? What do you want?" she asked, staring at the figure as if she were polluting their family home by just being there.  The figure did not say anything, however and pushed her way into the house.  "Hey! You can't just barge in here like this!" the indignant voice of Mrs. Hannah Finch-Fletchley cried out, her pigtails swinging.  Still the figure did not respond and in one swift movement had the hand holding the knife up to Hannah's throat.  

"Make a sound and I kill your child too," she hissed.

Hannah Finch-Fletchley made a sort of strangled moan and struggled to get free of her assailant.  "Please, don't kill my baby! Please don't kill my Benjamin!" she said, tears now flowing freely.  A tiny voice echoed down the stairwell:

"Mummy? What's happening?"

At this voice, she calmly removed the hand holding the knife from Hannah's neck.  "Dont try anything," she hissed.  "Act normal, or I promise you, I will kill him."  She slipped into a room, leaving the door slightly ajar, so she had a view of the proceedings.  The debut of Hannah Finch-Fletchley's short-lived acting career had begun.  She heard Hannah gasping in ragged breaths and saw her sink down onto the first step of the stairs.

"Everything is fine, Benjamin, go back to bed," she reassured the child.

"I want some hot milk," Benjamin whined, rubbing his eyes.

Hannah turned her head slightly and darted a look towards her captor.  She inclined her head a little within the darkness of her hiding place.  Hannah rose and walked to the kitchen, closely followed by a little blonde boy in a blue sleep suit.  She heard a sharp "ping" and Benjamin emerged from the kitchen, contented.  In one hand he held the milk and the other hand was tightly clasped around the brown paw of an extremely bedraggled teddy bear.  "There you go," she said, "now go to bed."

"Say goodnight to Pendragon," Benjamin ordered, thrusting the bear at her.

"Goodnight, Pendragon," Hannah's voice dropped to a near whisper.

"I love you, mummy," he said.

"I love you too, Benjamin," she replied, her voice catching in her throat.  He locked his chubby arms around her neck in a fierce hug.  "Now, scat, go to bed, little one," she said, giving him a little push towards the stairs.

She waited until she was sure he was out of sight and hearing range before she emerged from her hiding place.  In one swift movement she had the knife to Hannah's neck again.

"I've been watching you for a few days," she spat at Hannah.  "Not quite the virtuous little house wife you pretend to be, are you?  Thought you could get away with it, well this is where your deceit comes to an end."  She yanked on one of Hannah's trademark pigtails and Hannah was about to squeal in pain when a hand clamped over her mouth.  "Remember what I said," said her unknown attacker.  "Now, what I want you to do is walk obediently into the lounge and we'll take it from there, won't we, Hannah?"

Hannah nodded meekly, for it was all she could manage with the gloved hand covering her mouth.  The blade of the knife grazed her neck by her slight movement.  She walked on tottery legs to the lounge and stood, awaiting further instructions.

******

                Justin Finch-Fletchley stood and watched the scene play itself out in the front window.  He could see two outlines of figures cast onto the blinds.  One of them struggled wildly against the other's grip.  He saw one figure go limp and fall to the floor.  Utterly horrified, he ran to the front door, keys in hand.

******

                She heard the door open.  The job was done, but she was off-schedule.  She cursed the dumb kid mentally.  The knife still in hand, she froze momentarily forgetting her now main objective: escape.  The intruder entered the lounge.  It was Justin.  His eyes went first to her, and then to the crumpled body of his deceased wife on the floor.  The blood poured from a deep gash on her neck and ran into her hair, and stained the beige carpet with a rusty red hue.  Her eyes stared uncomprehendingly at nothing and her face had already lost its usual rosy flush.  Her eyes began to glaze over.  He looked at her, the realisation dawning on his face.  He reached for his briefcase, for his wand, for protection, but she was far too quick for him.  She pushed the knife into his fist, planting the evidence, tainting it, shifting the blame.  She reached for her wand.  He looked up, his face awash with anger, disbelief, hurt.  Bad move, Justin, she chided inwardly.  Outwardly she said "Stupefy!" and he fell to the floor, still holding the knife.  She left the room and went back through the front door.  There was no need for such caution now, after all who would know?

******  

                A muffled banging on her door woke Hermione up that morning.  It was Harry.

"Phone call for you, 'Mione," he said, handing her the sleek, silver cellular phone.

Harry, Hermione had decided after much thought was her idea of a perfect man.  That is if he didn't bat for the other side.  If he didn't play "hide the sausage".  If he wasn't gay.  She sighed and looked at the display on the cellular phone, which showed the name Malfoy.  She pressed accept and held the phone to her ear.  "Yes?" she asked irritably.

"Tut, tut Granger, you should know by now the etiquette in answering a phone politely," drawled a voice from the other end of the line.

She had been working at the Ministry's Detective Sector ever since she had left Hogwarts.  She loved her job, but she hated her partnering detective.  Malfoy.  That name cloyed in the mouth.  It was a name she had long hated.  It was true, he had matured since Hogwarts; he had had to.  The death of his overbearing father had left him a window of opportunity to escape his family's dark past.  So he had joined the Ministry's newest venture: the Detective Sector.  Harry wasn't at all happy about it, understandably.  He had even tried to persuade her to change jobs after witnessing her coming home so many times dispirited.  But Hermione had remained resolute.  This was a game in which she would not be beaten.  She had pride, and as long as she still had it, she would carry on.  She would show the fool what a Mudblood could do.

"What do you want?  Bear in mind that I'm busy, so make it quick," she warned him.

Draco feigned disappointment.  "Don't you want to know what the next case is?" he wheedled, "It's no skin off my nose if you don't, although the Ministry may be interested as to your sudden resignation."

Hermione groaned inwardly.  He was like this, so changeable, she could never know for sure what he was thinking.  "Okay," she said, resignedly, "what have you got for me?"

"Murder.  Occurred yesterday about seven in the evening.  Female, white Caucasian, Hannah Finch-Fletchley, originally one Hannah Abbot.  Husband was found at the scene unconscious, so the Muggle report goes, but he was most likely stupefied.  Suspect is a one Mr. Justin Finch-Fletchley, found clutching the supposed implement used to kill Mrs. Hannah Finch-Fletchley."

Hermione gasped.  "We went to school with her!" she exclaimed in horror.  "How awful."

Draco made a derisive noise.  "See you in ten?" he asked.

"Ten minutes?!" Hermione screeched, leaping out of bed.

"You heard me," Draco drawled.  "Not enough time, then?"

"You have to be joking.  Can we make it half an hour?" she asked, pacing her room in a desperate attempt to find some clean clothes.

"You're on.  I'll see you at the office.  We have a lot of work to do off-site today, but let's meet there to prevent confusion.  Later."

******

                Draco could not help thinking he had done rather well during his conversation to Hermione.  As much as he liked to rile her just for lack of something better to do, he knew for a fact that when she was slightly annoyed, she tended to do her job better.  He marvelled at the small, silver cellular phone in his hand.  Amazing how something so tiny could enable you to talk to people.  It was much more convenient than talking from someone else's fireplace.  It was at Hermione's insistence that he had one, the Ministry would never have shelled out for one of these babies.  He smiled to himself and turned into the Department of Mysteries corridor.  Here, Destra, the secretary was seated at the desk, painting her nails.

"Morning, Mr. Malfoy," she piped up as he walked past.

"Morning, Destra," Draco responded, jovially, biting back a comment about how much weight she seemed to have gained since the day before.

Destra blushed, and this spread to her neck, leaving her a very unbecoming salmon pink colour.  She hustled after him.  "Post, Mr. Malfoy.  You forgot your post."

"Thanks," Draco held out his hand expectantly but the post was never deposited into it.  He followed Destra's gaze, which definitely was NOT at his face, more around mid-thigh level.  He coughed pointedly.  "Destra?"

She blushed further, and her eyes goggled slightly, causing her to look like a very surprised, very over-cooked salmon.  This clashed horribly with her light pink cardigan and the whole effect was similar in resemblance to a prawn vol-au vent.  She handed him the post – _Poor girl, she had really tried this morning, thought Draco amusedly.  He winked at her and continued sauntering down the corridor.  He reached his office, which he shared with Hermione.  The Ministry had not deemed their field as important as that of the Unspeakables, so they had not been allocated a lot of space.  One office the size of a wardrobe, to be exact.  He sat down at his desk on his side of the room.  This was his domain.  Empty coffee cups littered the desk, some were even growing mould, they were so old.  The wall was painted green and silver, he was a staunch Slytherin and refused to let Hermione forget it.  A long forgotten Venus Flytrap sat on his part of the windowsill, along with a large heap of important looking documents, which he had salvaged from a recent Spring clear out to make himself look more important.  He kicked his shoes off and set his feet on the desk, wondering when Hermione would show up.  The door burst open and a very red faced Hermione careered in, flushed from her exertions.  Her wet hair had collected into rats' tails and she looked like she was wearing yesterday's clothes._

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Draco," she puffed, when she had sat herself down on the chair.  "I had nothing to wear and I overslept.  What's new?" she offered a hopeful smile.

"That is evident," said Draco coolly.  "Tell me, Granger, did you happen to have spaghetti bolognaise for dinner last night?  Perhaps with chocolate ice cream for afterwards"

Hermione frowned, puzzled.  "Yes, how did you-?" she asked.

"Well, a good detective never misses a clue.  I suggest you take a look at your shirt."

"Sorry," she said, blushing.  "Did you get Owls this morning regarding the case?"

He rifled through the various envelopes on his desk.  "No.  Did you?"

Hermione flicked through her post idly, nothing catching her eye, apart from an envelope with simply the name "Granger" written on it in red ink.  She turned the envelope over, and noted that it was not sealed.  She opened it and found a typeset message within.  She unfolded the heavy parchment paper and read:

CLUES ARE EVERYWHERE.  YOU JUST AREN'T LOOKING.  CATCH ME IF YOU CAN.

-SIGNED.

In the envelope, she found a small noose made from knotted string.  She gasped and dropped the letter and the so-called gift.  "It's the murderer, it has to be," she said in an unsteady voice.

Draco took the parchment and read it in silence.  Hermione was trying to regain her composure, but she still looked shaken..  "Have a cigarette," Draco offered, and presented her with a packet and a lighter.  "I would offer you some Firewhisky, but since drinking is prohibited on the premises…" his voice trailed off.  

Hermione declined with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.  "No, but thank you," she said shakily.  "I've been trying to give up."  She gave him a wan smile and rolled up her shirtsleeve to show, presumably, a Muggle remedy of some sort.

******

                She crouched in the shadows by the window of their office.  Waiting, always waiting, and for what?  No one had found her yet, though, so it was a mercy.  She watched them with interest through the window.  He was even patting her arm in what appeared to be a sympathetic manner.  He would be hugging her next and stroking her hair.  She had rather hoped that her letter would have been opened in front of Malfoy.  It would really alert them now.  He really was rather an attractive man.  She could feel the obvious sexual tension between him and Granger.  This, however, was irrelevant, she decided.  It was better to keep her mind on the job in hand.  She turned again to the office window, watching with interest as Malfoy absently touched a finger to his lips whilst listening to Granger.  A definite sex invite.  Yes, it would be hard to split these two up.  Although neither would admit it, she knew both would risk their jobs and possibly their lives for one another.  How adorable, she thought scathingly.  The serpent got his little Mudblood in the end.  She regarded the figure of Granger, who was now twirling her hair around her finger, in probably what she thought was a demure and "cute" fashion.  Oh, how she hated that word.  It suggested wholesome, it suggested virginal, it suggested good.  They had left the room.  She heard the front door open and Detectives Malfoy and Granger walked out.  No, that wasn't true; they stepped out.  Little did they know what was ahead.

******

                Hermione gingerly scraped some blood off of the beige carpet with a scalpel.  She deposited this into a test-tube and sealed it.  She dropped the test-tube into a clear plastic bag and put this into her briefcase.  She was never entirely sure how the Ministry fixed it so they could investigate their crime scenes; Cornelius had explained it to her, but she was not sure that even he knew what he was talking about.  Something to do with magical vortexes and moments frozen in time, or something.  She poked her head around the door into the hallway where Draco was working.  "Done yet?" she asked.

"Hmm…" Draco frowned, gripping a pencil between his teeth.  He removed it and looked up at her.  "The magic meter readings are high.  A spell must have been performed here recently."

"But that could have been anything.  It could have been, for example, Hannah, or Justin."

"Yes, I suppose."  He sighed.  "I'll give you a lift back, if you like.  We did take my car after all."

"Well, how will I get to work tomorrow morning?" she enquired anxiously.

"I'll pick you up.  Special service for you, milady."

"Draco, you know Harry would hate it.  I don't want to antagonise him.  And when you come to the door, you provoke him."

"Screw Harry," said Draco, viciously.  "You're coming with me!"

******

                Draco led the way to his car, a rare act of courtesy meaning that not only leading Hermione to it, he opened the door for her as well.  Once seated at the wheel he turned to Hermione and said:

"On second thoughts, fancy a coffee?"

Now, to anyone besides Hermione this would be just one of Draco's lewd sex invites.  But, Hermione, having had limited exposure to men during her teenage years at Hogwarts, save those two Neanderthals, Harry and Ron, smiled amiably and said "Sure.  Perhaps we can talk more about the case."

Draco's mind, which had been performing somersaults when he had heard her initial response, was sorely disappointed to be reminded by the appendages on either side of his head, namely his ears, that in fact he wasn't going to shag Granger and he might have to flaunt his manly charms to get some sex around this place.  He pulled into his customary parking space and motioned for Hermione to get out.  She did so, and followed him meekly into his small apartment.  "Coffee? Or whisky?" he asked, playing the host.

"Actually a whisky would be great, considering the kind of day I've had," Hermione responded, smiling.  He noticed her businesslike manner had been cast aside.  Gone was the hair-clip which she had scrunched all of her hair up in that morning.  Gone was the smart jacket.  Gone were the shoes.  She lay stretched out on Draco's expensive dragon-hide sofa and a bitchy little comment came to mind about his sofa being ruined by her being a Mudblood.  He pushed it aside, however and looked over at Hermione who was obviously fighting in vain to keep her eyes open.  Sleep prevailed, and with a happy sigh, she gave herself to it willingly.  Draco was completely baffled.  He had no idea what to do.  Work colleague.  Quite attractive.  Sprawled out on his sofa.  Asleep.  Draco's mind went through all the chains of thought.  He crossed the room, carrying the two glasses of whisky and set them down unnecessarily hard on the coffee table, in an attempt to "accidentally" wake her up.  This didn't work.  He bent over her, pondering what to do with her, when she solved the problem.  She wound her arms around his neck and pulled his head into her cleavage.

"Mmmphphgh!" he said, his voice muffled.  She still appeared to be sleeping soundly.  Her heavy breathing and fluttering eyelids confirmed this.  He was actually starting to enjoy his predicament.  That was, until a brick came sailing through the window and Granger woke up.

"What? What happened? What the hell did you think you were doing?!" she asked, confused and abashed.

Draco ignored her, he was intently examining the brick.  Attached to it was a simple Muggle Polaroid photograph depicting a hand covered in blood holding a knife, and a piece of parchment.  He unfolded it.

ARE YOU GOOD AT ACTING, GRANGER AND MALFOY? I SINCERELY HOPE SO, FOR YOUR BENEFIT.  THE CURTAIN HAS RISEN AND THE CHARACTERS ARE WAITING IN THE WINGS.  BUT WHO WILL NEVER MAKE IT TO THE STAGE? 

-SIGNED.


End file.
